


Split me open with a knife

by cumtogether



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Choking, M/M, Pacific Rim Uprising Spoilers, Precursor Newt, Verbal Humiliation, mild dub con, porn with vague plot, taunting as a form of dirty talk, the most depressing handjob of hermann gottlieb's life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 12:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14284833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumtogether/pseuds/cumtogether
Summary: This is nothing like he's imagined, because yes - God help him - he's imagined Newt's hands on him before, though in his mind he's always been gentle, and soft around the edges, and not likethis. Never like this. But any and all consideration in Hermann's mind that this is wrong, or dangerous, is overtaken byI want him, I want him, and he's right there, colder and with a manic glint in his eye, but there nonetheless, and God knows he deserves to be a little bit selfish after everything he's been through.-Hermann visits Newt in his cell after the events of Uprising.





	Split me open with a knife

**Author's Note:**

> I only dabble in morally dubious smut once every 300 years so I'm legally forbidden from writing anything like this again for a while (until Pac Rim 3 probably, depending on how that goes). I apologise in advance.
> 
> Title is from the line "I say I want you inside me and you split me open with a knife" from [Wishbone](https://www.colorado.edu/journals/standards/V7N1/MMM/siken.html) by the man who titles almost all of my fics, Richard Siken

 It’s obvious why the rangers think Hermann is their most valuable playing card for getting Newt back, so no one argues with their idea of sending him down to the cell to “exchange pleasantries”, as Nate sardonically put it, with the Precursors wearing Doctor Geiszler’s face. If he had any strength left in him, Hermann might have protested, but the fact is he’s exhausted after saving the human race a second time while his world fell apart before his eyes, and he’s come to terms with the fact that people don’t always get what they want in life. This has been a slow but ongoing realisation, beginning probably when he was around age seven and really coming to harsh, horrible fruition when he was reunited after a decade with possibly the only person he’s ever felt physically, mentally, _psychologically_ close to, only to discover that person has had his mind conquered by extraterrestrial invaders, and to be held, violently, by the throat by him, and to watch him be threatened at gunpoint, all within seconds.

His voice still echoes - _I’m just not feeling totally myself these days_ \- Newt’s voice but not quite, violating every waking moment, and he wonders in silent, furious despair how a voice can sound so familiar and so distant at the same time. Hermann desperately, _desperately_ wants to believe that Newt - his Newt - Newton Geiszler with his bright-eyed fascination with monsters and his stupid, reckless, wonderful need to save everybody is hidden behind that cruel smirk, but he dreads to consider that his mind has become smudged like a watercolour - no possible way to tell where the Precursors end and Newton begins.

But he’s tired. All he does these days is ache and miss Newt, and he has no energy for fighting with the rangers, so he agrees to try.

There’s another part of him, too, that simply doesn’t care. It’s been a decade, and he’ll take the fact that the thought of seeing Newt again kept him going for those ten years to his grave, but Newt is _here_ , or at least a part of him is, and so the more passion-fueled parts of Hermann’s brain just think, _why not?_ So what if Newt is cuffed and bloody, probably minutes away from spitting kaiju blue and opening six eyes instead of two, and barely even Newt anymore at all? So what? At least Hermann gets to see him again.

He walks into the cell alone, and stands in the stale, silent room, staring at someone who looks every bit like the man who burrowed his way into Hermann’s life and refused to get out, but who may as well be a complete stranger.

“Are you here to save Newt?” the man asks after a few moments, and Hermann despises Newt’s voice for the first time in his life, hates how it sounds through the Precursors’ snapping fangs and how Newt’s name drips off its tongue like poison.

“Newton,” Hermann says by way of answer, not really sure what to say after that, having dived straight in without a real plan of action. Sort of vaguely hoping the sight of him will pull Newt out straight away.

“Hermann?” it says, its head jerking up from where it had been resting on its chest.

The eyes that meet Hermann’s are wide and hopeful, and they crinkle at the corners when a smile of delight and relief breaks onto the thing-that’s-Newt-but-not-really’s face. It looks like Newt - every miniscule curve of his lip and twitch of his fingers screams _Newt_ \- but Hermann likes to think he’s smarter than that. He’s not going to be fooled into thinking the Precursors have lost control just because the man who occupies his every dream and desire is smiling at him. He’s not. Still, his bad leg is trembling a little and his fingers itch to tear him free of his cuffs.

“It’s me,” he confirms. If Newt notices the tremor in his voice, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Thank God you’re okay,” he says instead. It sounds like Newt. “I was worried you’d uh- like, died or something, when I-”

A sudden, shuddering intake of breath. It could all be an elaborate act, Hermann knows, but he still can’t help the instinctive step he takes towards Newt, and the burning, screaming determination to hold him and comfort him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” is all he says, virtually all his willpower being utilised to keep one hand on his cane and the other down by his side. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“What if I did?” Newt asks. The words come out through gritted teeth, but not by way of sounding menacing. He sounds like he’s trying to stop himself from crying. “I could've...I don’t know, fought harder?”

He looks away from Hermann as tears start to spill over, his whole body shaking as much as is allowed under his restraints with the effort of not sobbing aloud, and _God_ , if this is a test, Hermann is failing miserably. The longing in his chest is becoming physically painful.

“No one blames you, Newt,” he says, but his voice sounds brittle and not at all genuine because he’s grinding his jaw with a deathly strength to stop himself from crying as well.

“Bullshit,” he replies with a bitter laugh. “I know they all hate me up there, and with good reason. You’re the only one who-”

Hermann has no clue how he planned to end that sentence, but it still makes his heart ache so much he brings a hand to his chest, as if he could soothe years and years of pining and loneliness and desperation with a gentle rub. He can’t.

“Newt,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry, Hermann,” Newt says, looking back at him, eyes pleading and brimming with tears, and it’s the same expression, the exact same tone of voice from Shao’s lab - _I’m sorry, Hermann, they’re in my head_ \- and Hermann gets the exact same overwhelming dizzy sensation and ferocious need to shout and scream until his throat burns and his voice fails him.

It drives him over the edge. He throws caution to the wind, not caring for his own safety any longer because realistically, the only person he’s endangering - physically or emotionally - by letting Newt out of his cuffs is himself, and he’s too drained to give a damn what happens to him anymore.

As soon as Newt’s free, he grabs Hermann by the throat.

He’s not even surprised, really, he just feels resignation, and some anger at his own predictability, how easily he was taken in by the woe-is-me act, and how all his doctorates and dedication to logic and numbers and years of building emotional walls count for absolutely nothing as soon as he lays eyes on Newton. Pure instinct wills him to clutch at Newt’s hands, but otherwise, he doesn’t fight back. Newt drives him against the cell wall, forcing a strangled cry from him.

“You idiot,” Newt sneers, voice dripping with malice. “How easily corruptible your little minds are.”

“Newton,” Hermann wheezes, heart racing, mind spinning, drawing unwilling parallels between this and the lab - _none of you are strong enough_ \- and once again rubbing his thumb against Newt’s knuckles without even thinking about it, not entirely sure whether he wants Newt to let go or to keep going, so maybe seeing him in pain will act as a recalibrator and he’ll come back.

“Here we are again,” Newt says, mirroring Hermann’s thoughts as he comes in closer, his face barely inches away. “Hopefully Shao won’t interrupt us this t-”

His leg has found its way between Hermann’s, and Hermann suddenly desperately wishes Newt would just squeeze a bit harder and cut off his air supply forever. No such luck.

“Jesus Christ,” Newt laughs, eyebrows raised. “Are you _so_ lonely that this counts as profound human contact? That’s sad, dude.”

Hermann burns with shame, leaning his head back so he doesn’t have to meet Newt’s eyes, wishing that he hadn’t agreed to this because now the Precursors know how weak he is, how desperate he is, how much he _wants_ , and by association Newt knows, forced to watch Hermann squirm and probably disgusted by him.

“I-” he tries, but suddenly one of Newt’s hands has left his neck and begins fiddling with his zipper. “Newt-” he gasps again, maybe an attempt at protesting, but he’s no longer sure, because Newt’s fingers have found his cock and _oh God, oh God_ , he’s burning with loathing and humiliation and _need_ all at once and he thinks he might actually pass out.

This is nothing like he's imagined, because yes - God help him - he's imagined Newt's hands on him before, though in his mind he's always been gentle, and soft around the edges, and not like _this_. Never like this. But any and all consideration in Hermann's mind that this is wrong, or dangerous, is overtaken by _I want him, I want him_ , and he's right there, colder and with a manic glint in his eye, but there nonetheless, and God knows he deserves to be a little bit selfish after everything he's been through.

“He can see you, Hermann,” Newt - or rather, the thing wearing Newt’s face - taunts, stroking him, making Hermann buck forward and let out a strangled groan. “He wants to be in control _so_ bad.”

 _Please, please,_ Hermann thinks, still scrabbling at the fingers digging into his neck, not knowing if he’s begging to be let go or for _more, more, Newt, please_ , and the memory that _it’s not Newt_ keeps slipping in and out of his mind, the combination of loss of air flow and the deft, rough hand between his legs making him delirious, and when the cold metal of Newt’s ring brushes him at the base his mind completely short circuits and he cries aloud, making Newt squeeze harder, almost _snarling_ , and God, there are white spots in his eyes but he _needs so badly._

Maybe he deserves it like this; in his head Newt would smile and sigh, his hands would hover and caress instead of squeezing and pulling, they’d be slow and gentle with each other and murmur sweet words onto each other’s skin - and this is raw and without the promises and declarations of love - but maybe Hermann didn’t make enough of an effort to save Newt when they first started to take control, or maybe he was foolish to let Newt escape Shao’s bullet back in the lab because he _refused_ to let him get hurt, or maybe he should fight harder even now, so maybe this is all he gets. He remembers years ago, before they even met in person, Newt sent him a paper on _Mantis Religiosa_ , who kill their lovers after one sexual encounter, and Hermann wouldn’t use the word _lover_ for anyone but Newt - his Newt - but this Newt - the shell of Newt - might _actually kill him_ and he realises, to his horror, that he doesn’t care. His chest is brimming with rage and desperation and humiliation along with his sickly pleasure, and he _wants Newt so badly_ but he can’t bring himself to stop trying to press himself closer to this Newt, leaning into his touches and crying for _more, more, please, please more._

Newt leans into him and brushes his lips against the shell of Hermann’s ear, his breath hot and heavy against his skin, letting Hermann know that he’s getting off on this as well. He halfheartedly hopes that it’s because Newt’s regaining some form of control (though surely, Newt would stop, push him away, tell him he’s disgusting and weak and hopeless if he had), but whatever logical strands are left in his mind tell him that this Newt is a sadist, and seeing Hermann with fear and desperation in his eyes, still on fire with shame, is _hot_ , and this is all a game - an experiment - for him. _How many conflicting and horrible emotions can Hermann Gottlieb feel at once?_ , or _at what capacity of humiliation and guilt will Hermann Gottlieb eventually give in and let the possessed shell of the love of his life choke him to death?_ Hypotheses that Hermann never, _never_ wants to know to answers to.

“Both of you are so goddamn _noisy_ ,” Newt sneers, his hand motions around Hermann’s cock rhythmic but no less cruel and taunting than the rest of him. “You, whining like an animal. Begging. You can’t hear him, but he’s screaming at us to give him control. Newt, I mean.”

“N-” is all Hermann can choke out.

 _Newt, Newt, God, I am so sorry, I am so sorry,_ he thinks, tilting his head back against the wall, inadvertently allowing Newt to claw harder at his throat.

“He wanted you too, you know?” Newt goes on, lips against Hermann’s jawline now. “He didn’t stop screaming when we left you. He wanted you _so bad_ , and he wants you now.”

“N- Nnh-” Hermann chokes, his eyes swelling with tears.

“Well, I imagine he’d do it differently,” Newt shrugs, casually, sounding almost _conversational_. “He’s an awful sap. But hey, point is, he wanted you. Isn’t that nice? He _loved_ you. Isn’t that _sad_?”

His fingers push up to his jaw and force him to look down, into the thing’s eyes, so it can see how heartbroken Hermann is, how utterly, utterly defeated he feels, even as his traitor body responds to every movement of his wrist with _need, need, need_.

And then. Then, God, maybe he’s so delirious that he’s hallucinating but for a second, he _swears_ , he sees that glint in Newt’s eyes disappear and maybe his face shifts from a twisted sneer to a silent, despairing, _aching_ plea, and maybe his hand loosens around Hermann’s neck slightly. It’s a split second. Then Newt - he’s not sure which Newt - kisses him hard, and he thinks he tastes desperation but he’s so starved for air he can’t know for certain. He kisses deep and greedily, and Hermann, against his better judgement, kisses him back, the combination of Newt’s mouth on his and Newt’s hands on his throat and on his cock bringing him closer to either climaxing or blacking out in Newt’s hands, until Newt pulls back just enough to whisper against his lips,

“Both of you are pathetic.”

He comes, and Newt lets go.

The room echoes with the thud of his body hitting the floor and his wheezing, shattered coughs and gasps for air. There’s blood pounding in his ears, white spots still blurring his vision, and he’s trembling all over, he’s limp, and too weak to even feel disgusted by himself anymore, or hurt by Newt discarding him like he means nothing. He does mean nothing, he supposes, to this Newt.

But he saw, he _knows_ he saw, deep in his heart he knows that he saw Newt - his Newt - for a moment, begging him for _something_ , to fight harder, or not to give up on him, or to _stop, stop, you sick freak, stop_ , maybe, he has no idea, but it was _Newt_ , and it was Newt that kissed him, even if it only lasted for a second, and he grasps at that for solace as he watches the hazy figure of other Newt wipe his hands on his thousand-dollar trousers and regard him with indifference.

His Newt is still in there, somewhere.

He reaches up to his throat and gently touches where other Newt’s fingers had dug in barely seconds before, hearing him chuckle as he does so.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” other Newt says. “Might want to invest in a turtleneck.”

He resists the urge to scowl at him. Just reminds himself _Newt’s in there_ , and makes a promise, there on the cold steel floor of the cell that he’s going to get him out. If it takes him the rest of his life, if it means he wastes away with wanting and aching until he gets his Newt back, he’ll do it.

That night, in his dreams, the usual soft touches, the gentle sighs, and the words of adoration are replaced with bright, scared, pleading eyes, and two inked hands around his neck.

_They're in my head. They're in my head._

**Author's Note:**

> I'll write something happy one day. In the meantime, come yell at me on [tumblr](http://gxryking.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/gxryking)


End file.
